When Skies Fall
by SneezingKneazle
Summary: Our futures are determined by the actions that we make, but what if fate were to change? What if something as simple as a drop of rain rearranged everything in our futures? An examination of the butterfly effect, with a slightly different take on the idea of what "veela" means.
1. Of Feathers and Farewells

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of his fellow characters, or the world that he lives in. I am willing to bet that you don't either, because if you did, why would you be reading what I had written? **_

* * *

**_Warning: This story is one of those veela fictions. It may be terrible, it may not be. I have no way of knowing just yet, but if at the end of this chapter you are hitting your head against the wall in agony because I have officially butchered every character trait so far, I am truly sorry. If you aren't doing so, do be so good as to let me know! _**

**_Oh yeah: Also, things may get a little (only a little) M-rated eventually. I'm not sure yet. But I'll give you warning if it happens, and I'll change the rating at that time. _**

**_And now I'll stop prefacing. _**

* * *

Her heels, clacking angrily down the stone halls, should have been enough to warn him.

Even if that hadn't worked, the muttering of the portraits around him should have been a clue. By the time she had reached the door, they were all practically shouting at him to watch out.

But still, he refused to pull out of his notes, scrawling revisions carelessly across the margins.

She didn't bother to knock, stomping in with angry clacks of her standard-length work heels. Everything was always standard-length with her.

He didn't look up, and her angry puff of air gave him a final, useless clue.

For a moment, there was silence, but then…

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, if you don't acknowledge me in the next ten seconds, I will not be held accountable for my actions."

He had been expecting shouting. Astoria usually shouted.

Today, however, her voice was cold.

He looked up. Stared at her blankly. Waiting.

She sighed, and though the anger did not leave her eyes, her voice was weary as she spoke; "It's time that we talked."

* * *

Hermione was rather put out.

Alright, she was furious; ear-steaming, cheek-reddening, seeing-spots furious.

She sat on the bench outside of her apartment building, letting the rain soak through her cardigan and drip down her ruined stockings. It was easier to make it look like you weren't crying when there was water pouring down your face. It was easier to pretend that you were simply wet from the sky's tears, not your own.

Hermione hated crying. She hated it more than the weather, more than this miserable day, more than this miserable life. Crying was like her body admitting defeat, and she was in no way admitting defeat. It was just that she couldn't control these sobs. The tears just kept flowing, and her breaths just kept gasping in.

It had been years since she had allowed herself a good cry. Now it seemed she couldn't make herself stop.

He had done it again.

After all those stupid council sessions, all that god damned _time_ she had put into fixing them, he had thrown it away like it all meant nothing.

At least she had the apartment. He could keep the house. She didn't want the house, didn't want the garden or the stupid pergola that kept falling over. The cat was dead, the owl was his, and she didn't want any of it. He could keep all the memories too, for all she cared. Clearly, they only managed to hurt her.

She just wanted her stupid heart back, if that was all right with him. If he would just give her back that one thing, she would be fine.

The rain was turning into drizzle before she started shaking and realized that she was, in fact, cold.

But the stupid apartment key was back at the house and she wasn't going there now. Or ever.

She sat in the drizzle, wondering what exactly she was supposed to do.

Her apartment was warded so well that without the key she wasn't getting in any time soon. Harry would probably go get it for her, but he was off doing something, she didn't know what, for the ministry, and he wouldn't be back all week. Neville and Hannah were still on their honeymoon, and Luna was off in the tropics somewhere. Ginny would gladly give her a place to stay, but she would also want to talk; talking was the last thing that Hermione wanted to do.

Gringotts was closed and her purse was in the apartment. She couldn't very well buy a room for the night without any money. The ministry was shut down by now, at least the part she had access to.

Hermione was beginning to regret not taking that security-clearance promotion.

She forlornly debated going back after all, barreling past his apologies and disapparating as fast as she could.

It appeared to be her only solid option…

And then the strangest thing happened.

A raindrop, hurtling to the ground with his brothers, got caught in a gust of wind. Just one little raindrop, curling sideways, whirling in the gust that shouldn't have been.

It splattered against her neck, rolled under her collar, tickled its way down her spine.

She shifted uncomfortably, wiggling her back to dissipate the water, and as she did so, the object in the pocket of her robes bumped against her legs.

Hermione froze, remembering exactly what was there, and beginning to think she might have a clue what to do after all.

_"I don't need a time turner, Minister. I barely come to the office during normal hours."_

_ "Trust me on this Hermione, you're going to need it for this job. I know you've had experience with them, and you know the rules."_

_ "So what? Ellen and Michael are both just as certified as I am, if not more so. They know the restrictions, they follow them as diligently as I do."_

_ "But the point is, Hermione, that they won't break the rules to do what it right. And you, my dear, will."_

_ "What exactly are you saying, Kingsley?"_

_ "You'll see soon enough."_

The time turner was warm in her palm, and Hermione stared at it. Would she dare?

A week ago, she had been back at the house, having a fairly good week with Ron. They hadn't been fighting much; she'd been helping him repaint the kitchen.

The key to her apartment had been under its mat a week ago.

She could just go in, dry off. Get a good night's sleep and clear her head.

The option was so tempting, yet Hermione hesitated.

This was not a toy; this was a time turner. Risky stuff to be playing with for a good night's sleep.

Another gust of wind curled up off the pavement and splashed Hermione roughly in the face.

She took a deep breath, and turned the hourglass over.

* * *

"You're not exactly being fair about this. I've been busy," Draco ran a hand through his hair for what felt like the thousandth time.

"That is only a half-truth, and you know it. I am fully aware that you have been avoiding me, and I am also fully aware why," she sounded so resigned now, slumped in the chair, all the fight of their argument drained from her voice.

He looked at her, the girl he had known would be his since he was seventeen, and for the first time in six years, he felt a hint of doubt.

She looked up at him, her beautiful blue eyes so defeated that for a second he thought she was reflecting his own thoughts, but then she spoke and the moment shattered with her words: "I know she's been pressuring you to give me the ring. And it's not fair of her, Draco, I know it's not. However, it's been six years of this. I am not getting any younger, Draco. That might sound silly to you, but I know what I want. I thought you were waiting until I turned twenty-one, which I understood, I really did. You were right to wait, but now I'm not so sure that your reasons were as you said. Did you ever want to marry me, Draco?"

"Of course I want to marry you Astoria," he wanted his words to be emphatic, assured, just as they had been every other time she had brought this up. It would be so easy to fix this; the ring was in the wardrobe upstairs, he was planning on proposing any day now. He had made the commitment to her, he just hadn't told her yet. Somehow, though, their earlier arguments whirled through his head, and the insecurity came back.

She heard only unsureness, saw only his downcast eyes.

"I won't waste your time, then, Draco. I'm sorry we can't make this work."

"Astoria! No, listen…"

"I'll gather my things. You can come over to retrieve your own. No - I'll bring them to you at your office tomorrow. I don't want you back at my house."

He wanted to call out to her, tell her what she meant to him, tell her that he loved her.

Instead he just watched her walk out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

* * *

She hadn't been able to sleep, not well anyways. Even knowing that there was no way that her past self would be here, Hermione tossed restlessly in her bed, worried at being caught. Time turners really did a number on restful sleep.

By seven, she had given up on herself.

A hot shower and several strong cups of tea later, and Hermione was feeling slightly more herself. She was also immensely regretting her decision.

Nothing to do about it now but straighten up and go back to reality. But when the bed was made and the dishes washed, Hermione had difficulty convincing herself to go back.

Why not take the afternoon off? It had been a long time coming, after all.

Her cardigan was a bit worn after last night's escapades, but she pulled it back on and snuck out, carefully locking the door and replacing the key.

It was a sunny day, dry, without a cloud in the sky, which was rather unusual for London. Hermione smiled up at the sun and stretched against it, feeling the familiar warmth on her skin.

Perhaps she should go south again; spend the winter in France. Hermione missed the sun.

She wandered up the street aimlessly, feeling surprisingly light, despite the discoveries of the previous day.

Her resolve was set now, and as she walked, Hermione found herself realizing a peculiar thing.

For two years now, she had blamed herself. They had married too young; they had not dated long enough. Ron wanted a wife who stayed at home; she wanted a career. When he had asked her to pick out the house she had decided on one that he would like; she had never told him what she wanted.

The surprising fact was that all of this was not as true as she had led herself to believe. They had only married three years ago; they had known each other long before. She had told him what she wanted, and he had told her what he wanted; neither one of them had bothered really listening. She had put her career on hold for him and he hadn't even noticed. It was not as much her fault as she had surmised.

Perhaps it was no one's fault.

And it was with this realization that her feet turned toward the ministry, deciding then and there that enough was enough.

* * *

A soft knock pulled Draco from his thoughts. He had not been able to manage work all morning, waiting anxiously for…what, exactly, he wasn't sure.

Astoria clacked smoothly into the room, her face more a mask than he had ever seen. She had been crying; he could see the tear stains on her cheeks.

Gently, the box was set on his desk. She stepped back, clearly unsure of where to put her hands. Astoria settled for wringing them together.

She was biting her lip in that way that drove him crazy, blinking at him with those enormous, timid eyes, and he wanted so much to tell her that he loved her.

His mouth stayed glued shut instead.

She sighed, a silent parting sound, and nodded briskly.

And then she turned and left.

* * *

Hermione marched up to the front desk of the Wizengamot Administration Services Marriage Offices and smiled briskly at the witch behind the counter.

"I'm here for the papers," her voice was not a shaky as she had anticipated it to be.

The witch smiled and shuffled through a desk drawer, "Vow renewal, Mrs. Weasley?"

Hermione locked her jaw resolutely, "Divorce."

The witch looked shaken, but handed over the paperwork. Hermione nodded briskly and walked determinedly onto the lifts once more.

She got out on level 3, thinking that it would be best to leave the documents in her desk for when she would need them in the soon-to-be-future. Slipping behind her receptionist's back, she pushed the papers into a folder at the back. Not, however, before signing the lot of them.

Unfortunately, lunch hour was ending in the offices. The voices of her employees began to travel down the hall from the lifts. Hermione slid back through her door and danced around a potted plant before she could be seen. She snuck through the main office with relative ease, but as she neared a lift Michael rounded the corner, nearly bashing into her. She ducked inside another lift, dodging out of sight. He walked on, kennel blind as always, and Hermione fought the sigh that threatened to escape her lips.

Being in a lift proved to be rather problematic. To her horror, a large group from the Beast Division clamored in after her, forcing her to the back. Bowing her head so as not to be recognized, Hermione waited until the lift cleared and the doors clanged shut once more.

She was descending again it seemed, and Hermione's heart raced as she neared level 3. What if the person calling the lift was Michael, realizing what he had seen?

She continued down and let out a sigh of relief.

"Level 2, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," the speakers announced cheerily, and Hermione dashed out in a panic when a familiar head entered. She had forgotten in her haste that the minister tended to make his rounds after lunch. He was preoccupied, ruffling through some papers as his chief of staff muttered rapidly in his ear.

Kingsley's guards filed in after him and soon he was surrounded. Hermione breathed a sigh and hurried down the hall in relief. If the minister found out about her use of ministry property she was sure to be in for it! Hermione groaned to herself. This was becoming nightmarish. She vowed to never again use time turners for personal gain.

How was she going to get herself out? The lifts were clearly too risky. There was a stairwell at the other end of the hall, but to reach it Hermione had to pass by the Hit Wizard's offices. Someone was always out and about there, ready to dart off on some unknown mission.

She took a deep breath, steadied her shaking hands and hurried briskly down the hall, head up and eyes confident. One turn done, then the next, and Hermione felt herself nearing freedom.

Luckily enough, the next corner brought more relief. Apparently it was still lunch hour for this half of the Hit Wizards offices. There was only one woman in the hallway, someone Hermione found vaguely familiar, but who wouldn't have bothered remembering her, even if they had spoken. The woman walked briskly past, tears visible in her eyes. She was not paying any attention to Hermione.

Thank Merlin for small favors.

Hermione hurried down the hallway, toward the stairs that promised freedom. Just as she was about to reach them, she heard a door open.

It was now or never. She barreled through the door to the stairwell, sprinting up three steps before daring a glance backwards.

The door behind her snapped shut, but not before a pair of familiar grey eyes had caught her own.

* * *

Draco growled into his hands.

He felt, as usual, like a coward.

He didn't like feeling like a coward. He had finished with that feeling.

With a sigh, he leapt to his feet, ready to race after the girl he was supposed to marry, if only she would let him ask.

In three strides, he was at the door, yanking it open, racing out into the hallway.

Her heels were clicking far off, and he turned toward the noise, ready to race for the lifts.

The screech of a door hinge caught him in confusion; this was Astoria, she wouldn't have gone for the stairs. Would she?

He whirled, ready to call out to his girl.

The eyes that stared back at him weren't Astoria's, though.

They weren't even blue.

They were brown, like the color of honey, the color of warmth.

Somewhere very deep inside of Draco, somewhere he hadn't known existed, a little piece of him snapped.

The door closed heavily and her eyes were gone, but the reaction that they had caused was far from over. He began to shake, his mind whirling as his body collapsed, his knees giving out under him. He ducked his head against the world, fighting the urge to race to the stairs, chase those honey eyes until they would look into his again.

Draco was not unaware of whose eyes those were; they were Granger's eyes, he had known it at once. Granger, with her insufferable intelligence and irritating hair. Granger, who was always right and refused to be called otherwise. Granger, with her stick-in-the-mud ways and prim little attitude. He hated Granger, despised her with every fibre of his being.

Every fibre but the one that was snapping outwards, yanking his body against itself as he fought to keep from going after her, pulling her to him, touching…

No.

It was Granger, the irritating Golden Girl.

She did not deserve these thoughts, this…desire.

He wrestled with himself, growling at the ground.

Finally, the urge passed, and he collapsed against the floor, panting.

She was gone, that was good. Granger was too far away to chase after now. He was safe; she was safe.

He shuddered at the thought of where his head had gone, what he had wanted to do. She was a mudblood!

And yet, as he pulled himself to sit against the wall, he found himself wincing in pain at the loss of her.

He ran a hand through his hair again, any remaining gel becoming useless at the motion.

What the bloody hell was this all about?

And then he saw it in his palm, the one that had just emerged from his ruined hair.

The thing he had never expected, always assumed would never appear on him.

A single, blonde something that made his heart plunge into his stomach.

A downy something that settled, weightless in his hand.

A feather.

Draco was seriously screwed.


	2. Burning Bridges and Fueling Fires

**_Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and neither is the world. As we are all well aware. _**

* * *

It was relieving to turn home, even if it was back to rain and cold. Hermione stowed the time turner safely in her pocket and renewed her vow to keep it there; life was dangerous enough as it was.

She stared up at the rainy sky above her and watched the clouds roll by.

Perhaps going back in time for a nap was not as wise a decision as it seemed. She was still in the same trouble she had been in before, only now she was better rested.

Then again, her head was on a bit straighter now.

Straight enough to have the resolve to go back to the house.

She wasted no time there of course, on him or anything else. Find the key, pull together the last of her things, inform Ron that she would owl him the divorce papers in the morning. That was all.

He was surprisingly silent throughout her visit. The idiotic bimbo that had been surprised by Hermione earlier seemed to have enough common sense to excuse herself to the ladies' for the duration of his wife's second visit but not enough to actually leave. Ron looked embarrassed by that, at least. He said nothing, watched her pack her bag for the last time. Nodded when she told him the owl would be at his window by morning.

They both knew it was over.

It was a relief, actually, the ability to just say goodbye at last. Hermione took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and _disapparated__._

She did not look back.

* * *

Draco stared into the fire and sank dejectedly into his leather chair.

It had been a rough week to be sure.

For the first time in his entire career as a hit wizard, or really anything for that matter, he had called out sick.

A full week! This woman was an incredible nuisance.

Not that it was exactly her fault that he had been stuck at home, locked in by a house elf that promised not to let him out until he calmed down.

Maxus really was the best, well worth the few galleons it took to hire him; he also knew how to fix furniture, which was proving useful.

Draco had destroyed this particular armchair at least thirty times already.

He had read every book in the family library (it was now housed in the bookshelves of his slightly-too-big-to-actually-be-called-a-cottage). Every bloody family history had been reviewed, and Draco was finally getting desperate. There was nothing in the least bit out of place with the records, but the Malfoys did tend to cover up their own faults of lineage.

Mother was his only hope. An owl was dispatched at last.

Waiting had been the hard part; the armchair had not approved.

All he could see were those eyes. And that hair. And that infuriating, infatuating mouth.

He had found old copies of the prophet in the attic, and to his own inner disgust, they were riddled with her pictures. She smiled out at him in black and white, blushing at the camera and hiding her face. He felt his heart melting even as his head screamed.

It helped to look at her, study her face. The hurt was less obvious then, duller for a few precious moments.

He would remember, though. Eventually, the pictures would loop one too many times, and he would recognize them for what they were.

They always seemed to catch fire in his palm at that point.

Then, of course, there were those stupid articles about her being in love, first with Saint Potter, then with the Weasel. The chair received an extra beating for those, even though he knew they were not true, not at first anyways.

The wedding announcement stopped him. He burned it at once, their smiling faces and laughter taunting his own angry tears.

It was strange to weep over someone he hated so passionately. To yearn for someone whose image so filled him with disgust. Yet there he sat, and there he wept. And as her image burned itself into his head, the yearning for her grew, the pain at the emptiness that was a lack of her.

_Hermione. _

Mother returned his letter and with it, his world shattered slowly around him.

_-so sorry-_

_ -should have told you-_

_ -father-_

_ -long dead-_

_ -married Lucius-_

_ -never told him-_

_ -father-_

_ -Veela-_

Veela.

Bloody hell.

* * *

Divorce was sort of a funny feeling.

It had been such a long time since she was single, so many years. Separation was one thing, but to be free and alone in the eyes of the law was completely different.

Hermione sat in the Atrium at the ministry and sipped her coffee, which really was awful; her coworkers had been right. She watched the bustle around her, witches and wizards blurring before her eyes.

What now?

She had the rest of the day off, nowhere to go, and nothing to do. To be truthful, that was how her life felt at the moment. She was so used to taking care of someone, and now there was nobody left.

This wasn't true of course; she had Harry and Ginny and the little one on the way. She had Luna and Neville and Hannah. Her parents were coming back from Australia for December, and while that was still a ways away, it would be good to see them.

For a moment, just a moment, though, she wished that there had been children. Ron had wanted them, to be sure, but she had never been ready. They were still so young, and the thought of adding a child into an already rocky home had filled her with unease. Her children deserved better than that, even if they didn't exist yet.

Hermione wondered if they would ever exist.

She shook her head in agitation. No more of these melancholy thoughts! She had better things to do than worry constantly about the future.

As for this afternoon, there was no use wasting it.

Perhaps a trip to the museum; they always seemed to want her help proofreading the exhibits.

Yes, a nice day away was all that she needed.

Hermione dragged her mackintosh on and headed for the Knight Bus stop. While not many were willing to use that particular form of transit, she found the whole experience nostalgic and friendly. A good dose of nostalgia would surely drive the blues away.

She was not exactly prepared for how much nostalgia she was about to receive.

A blonde head greeted her at the bench and, sensing her presence, grey eyes looked up to meet hers.

"Granger," the word was half gasp – half sigh and charged with an emotion that Hermione did not rightly understand.

She blinked at him. What was Malfoy doing here, at a bus stop of all places? Why was he looking at her like…that? Hermione took an involuntary step backwards as his eyes grew wide, taking her visage in with an almost predatory determination.

He scowled at her suddenly, his gaze coming back up to hers, but his eyes stayed the same. How he could look both furious and…vicious…hungry…something…was beyond her.

"What are you doing here?" his words echoed her thoughts.

Finally finding her voice, Hermione stammered, "I do work here you know, Malfoy."

His eyes were incredibly unsettling, but the sneer he gave her was just as if they had been back at school, "I thought the ministry's new mission was to _remove _scum."

For some reason, this put Hermione at ease. _This_ was a Malfoy she could handle, "Well they gave _you_ a job, didn't they?"

"Momentary lapse in judgment on their part, I grant you," he smirked at her, and she blinked at the almost-joke, unsettled again.

"Well, I think you've just proven _my_ point," Hermione informed him, her voice pushing out far less venom than she had intended.

He just shrugged. For a moment, there was silence, and Hermione noticed just exactly how tired he looked. There were dark bags under his eyes and his skin was stretched thin, his cheekbones pinched. Yes, Malfoy was very tired. His head appeared to be nodding even as she stood watching him.

Not that he wasn't watching her back; he very much was. His eyes were drifting up and down her body in slow strokes, as though memorizing her frame. For some reason, perhaps the tired way he held his shoulders, or the tilt of his head, it didn't make her feel threatened. On the contrary, it was…nice. Or something.

Debating her own head for a moment, Hermione gave into reason and sat cautiously on the bench next to him. Almost immediately, Malfoy stiffened, and Hermione watched his knuckles grow white as he gripped the seat, carefully pulling his body away from her. If she had thought Malfoy was strange in his youth, it was nothing like his behavior now.

"Are…are you alright, Malfoy?" she hated how timid her voice sounded, but he refused to stop looking at her and it was rather unnerving.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, "Why would you care?"

She shrugged, "You just look tired, that's all."

He looked down for the first time since he had seen her, carefully studying his knees.

"You're not in trouble, are you?" she wasn't exactly sure why she cared, but Hermione chalked it up to her unused mother-hen instincts; take away her friends, and she'd mother her enemies too!

He shook his head, but when he locked eyes with her, she saw the turmoil of an argument raging in his head, "No, Granger. Just haven't slept well."

"Are you sure you're not sick or something?"

And then Hermione did something that she would live to regret.

She wasn't even sure why she did it in the first place. Perhaps it was her shaky emotional state, her biological clock begging her _to just take care of somebody damn it_, or her genuine wish to see if he were really all right. Or perhaps it was just because the second she sat down, Hermione realized just exactly how amazing Draco Malfoy smelled today. It wasn't fair that some men got all the luck and all the money and then got to smell good to boot. It was infuriating. And it was distracting.

Without thinking twice, Hermione reached her left hand up to touch his face, or his forehead, to be precise. She was trying to check his temperature after all.

Except her hand never reached its destination. It was intercepted halfway through its journey by his own warm grasp.

Before she could blink, he had pulled her hand up, past his forehead, to press it into his hair. His other hand had wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer.

His face he had buried in her neck.

Hermione froze, one hand gripping his shoulder, one hand resting awkwardly on the back of his head. Draco just nuzzled against her ear and breathed in deeply, wrapping both arms around her waist.

He sighed, moved to pull her closer, and then froze.

"Shit," he whispered.

She didn't move a muscle, but Hermione felt her eyes begin to water.

"I am so sorry, please don't scream. Really, Granger I had no intention of…oh Merlin! Just please don't scream, alright? I think I can get off of you in a minute if you would just please not scream," he was hissing in her ear so quietly that had his lips not been against her earlobe, she might not have heard him.

Hermione didn't even twitch, her muscles locked.

It appeared that Draco was in a similar predicament, and she heard him curse softly in her ear, "If you'll just hold on one more moment, I appear to be unable to let go."

She had found her voice at last, although it came out rough and rather high pitched, "Is there anything I can do?"

This apparently was the wrong thing to say, as he swore again, clutching her closer still, "Hold on, Granger, hold on."

She fell silent, waiting.

"Do you, do you maybe think you could try patting my back or something? My body appears to think that you're going to hit me if I let go," his voice was strained in her hair.

She patted his shoulder clumsily and couldn't help from muttering, "There, there, Malfoy, it's alright, you can let go of me, it's alright."

He chuckled into her shoulder and the rumble made her blush unintentionally, "I don't know if telling me to move is going to help any, Granger."

She huffed, "Well, do you have a better idea?"

"I suppose not," he sighed, and she felt his shoulders drop.

"In that case...Malfoy? I want you to let go of me. I know you want to keep doing whatever it is that you're doing, but now is not the time or place. If you would like to talk through whatever this is, that is fine by me, but I will not bother listening if you do not let me go. And additionally, if you let me go within the next ten seconds, I won't slap you," her voice was getting stronger as she spoke, and Hermione smiled as she felt her confidence slowly creeping back.

Malfoy scoffed, but his arms loosened slightly.

"Did it work?" she whispered.

He stretched his arms experimentally, and when they moved of their own accord, he yanked himself away quickly.

Hermione sank against the bench in relief, clutching at her sides, "What the bloody hell was that?"

Draco shook his head, "You wouldn't want to know."

She was about to protest that she would, in fact, like to know why he had just been physically unable of letting go of her, when the Knight Bus decided to pull up. It really did have the very best timing.

Hermione stood, but when she didn't move forward, Draco growled, "Just go, Granger. Go run back to Weaselby and all your rodent children and forget you saw me at all."

She moved towards the bus, but before she stepped on, Hermione turned, "I'm not married to Ron anymore, Malfoy."

His eyes grew wide as he stared at her, "You're…you're not?"

She shook her head and gave him a tiny smile that she would deny the occurrence of in future, and then she boarded the bus.

A very wound-up Malfoy watched her go.

* * *

Draco wasn't sure if he was happy or miserable. It was probably a combination of both.

Her scent was stuck to his skin, and he breathed it in like a drug, staring at the fire in front of him in a daze.

She had talked to him. Asked about his health. For a second, she had worried over him. When he had grabbed her, she had not pulled away.

This was, of course, because she had frozen in shock and fear, but Draco didn't really care. Not at the moment, anyways.

By the end of the week, he had managed to rein in whatever driving force had taken over his emotions and he had decided to go into work. Not for the day; just to get some papers. He was eating again, not much, but enough. As long as he was still alive, he might as well fill out all those forms he had been overlooking.

Some invisible force had pulled him to that bench, and he had sat, watching the rain silently.

In less than a minute, he had felt her next to him. He could feel that it was her, and one glance had confirmed it.

_Merlin,_ was she ever beautiful.

And that _smell_…

Draco thought he must be in heaven.

His own words had broken the spell, and her look had snapped him out of the daze, but his eyes had other ideas, running across her body unashamedly.

She was delectable in every sense of the word.

In his head was the usual battle because she was, of course, still Hermione Granger. This warranted dislike despite his veela-bred thoughts. It made him wonder why his blood had chosen her of all people. She was so very much not his type.

Then there was that whole fiasco of his grabbing her and not being able to unlock his muscles. Not that he had in any way wanted to. Logically, of course, he didn't want to breathe near her, never mind touch her. _Physically_, there was no way he was budging.

She had asked him to get away from her and when his body had actually listened, it had made him want to hurl. He would do anything for a girl that he hated. Life was cruel.

Some jibe about her husband later, and she had told him the thing that would keep him up for weeks.

Hermione Granger was no longer married.

Hermione Granger was single.

Hermione Granger was free.

Except that she wasn't free, not really.

Despite what Draco's head might shriek at himself, he knew the truth.

Hermione Granger was _his_.


	3. Of Breakage and Boredom

_**Disclaimer: I do not own JK Rowling. Or her characters. Or her books. Or her copyrights. Or anything she has ever looked at.**  
_

* * *

Admitting defeat had been rather difficult for Draco.

Actually, the last two weeks had been better, which was what made the whole thing all the more agitating. After speaking to Hermione, the effects of heartbreak had certainly diminished. Almost entirely, in fact.

Draco had returned to work. He had not slept well, granted, but he had been able to eat. The armchair had remained undamaged, and he had actually managed to focus on the life he had built for himself.

It seemed that a good, healthy dose of Granger was all that he had needed.

This was quite infuriating to realize. It was Granger, after all. She was a major pain, one Draco really wouldn't have minded eradicating completely. Aside from the fact that the thought of her dying now brought him physical distress, Draco couldn't have cared less what happened to the girl. Being unintentionally in love with her really didn't change much of anything.

He was able to convince himself of this for nearly a month, four blessed, Granger-free weeks. Other than a few moments of weakness, Draco had felt fine. He had only doubled over in pain twice. The feathers were appearing infrequently now. Perhaps there was a potion for that. He would have to remember to ask the next time he ended up in St. Mungo's.

Unfortunately, even the best of times had to end.

Blaise asked him out to have a few drinks, and after a heavy internal debate, Draco went.

He had never been more wrong about a decision.

At first it had been pleasant enough, but then his schoolmate had proposed they catch a couple of pretty birds.

The prospect of touching any female other than Granger had made Draco physically sick, but he had held out regardless.

This was his second mistake.

Blaise, thinking it a joke that Draco had no interest in finding an easy shag, laughed and made some comment about Draco still being stuck on some schoolboy fancy of his.

Clearly, Draco had responded a bit too strongly, and the jibes had begun. Blaise had been roaring in laughter as he turned the joke into a mockery of guessing who Draco fancied this week.

He had gotten a bit too close to the truth.

Draco had blown up, unintentionally, of course. He had barely missed his friend's jaw as he yanked his swinging fist away from its target.

Thankfully, no one but Blaise had seen. Both men's eyes had grown wide as they stared at each other. Blaise had apologized slowly, watching his friend warily.

Draco muttered his own apologies, paid the bill, and ran.

Things had gone downhill from then on. His thoughts had whirled, pulling up each and every memory of Granger. He relived each horrifying encounter, and Draco slowly realized how much of an idiot he had been in school.

His rational mind reminded him that she had deserved it, the insufferable know-it-all. His emotions wouldn't listen.

Maxus had given up trying to keep the chair in tact.

It was on the third day of his fits that the house elf had finally appeared, looking at the latest untouched tray of food with irritation.

"Master should eat," he insisted pointedly.

Draco snarled at the house elf, "Not hungry. Go away."

The elf just tapped its foot in impatience, "Why does Master not eat?"

Malfoy growled.

"Is it Granger girl?" Maxus crossed his tiny arms.

Draco stared at the elf, his heart screaming at the sound of her name.

"If Granger girl gets you eating, Granger girl's mouth is worth company," stated the elf firmly.

Mind whirling, Draco reevaluated his situation. One conversation had given him nearly two weeks of respite. Perhaps she would speak to him again? He was grasping at straws, but the floating feeling in his chest at the prospect of her voice made his decision for him.

"Do you think she would talk to me?" his words were more to himself, but Maxus answered anyways.

"If Master must decide between starving and Granger-girl, Master had best pick eating."

* * *

Hermione was bored out of her mind.

It turned out that her job was not nearly as exciting as it seemed without someone to discuss it with at the end of the day. She had nothing to do in her apartment, nowhere to go after work. Tuesdays had always meant therapy, and now Hermione found herself all alone for yet another afternoon.

She contemplated buying a house of her own. Being able to choose her own colors, grow her own plants was a novel idea for all of two seconds. Being alone in a house, however, was not a pleasant prospect. The apartment was lonely enough.

Ginny suggested that she go out, have a drink with her coworkers, maybe even try the dating scene. The idea of dating filled Hermione with trepidation, and she firmly refuted the idea. She may have been only twenty-four, but she felt far too old for casual dating.

What to do with hours of man-free time?

She briefly contemplated knitting, and dismissed the idea almost at once. She was too young to be starting down that road.

Perhaps a book; Hermione had always harbored the idea of writing. Unfortunately, she didn't exactly have a topic worth relating to the general public.

Nothing to do about that but wait for an idea to spring into her head.

She sat glumly in the Atrium's restaurant again, watching the wizards slowly drain out of the ministry. There was nothing to do now but go home and wait for the tedium to start all over.

Standing, Hermione made for the exit, only to find her elbow caught in a firm grip.

Whirling around, she met a pair of all-too-familiar gray eyes, and the shock of memory made her breath far more of a gasp than was necessary.

He smirked at her, "Nice to see you too, Granger."

Scowling, she pulled her elbow from his grip, "What do you want, Malfoy?"

He looked momentarily concerned, but then his eyes lit with a playful taunting, "You said you wanted to know what the other day was about, didn't you?"

Hermione crossed her arms, unnerved by the lack of space between them, "Yes?"

"Well, then," Malfoy's eyes danced and his gaze slid down her frame, "Come to dinner, and I'll tell you."

She blinked at him, "Excuse me?"

He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, "Come. To. Dinner. With. Me."

Hermione barely contained the shiver that went down her spine. It wouldn't do to show Malfoy a thing like that, she chided herself. He wanted to go to dinner, or rather, he wanted to take her to dinner. She would be a fool to go.

It wasn't like she had anything better to do, however…and she did so want to find out what he had been about the last time they had met.

He did really smell amazing…

She had made her decision. It may have been a foolish one, but Hermione was feeling reckless. And it would certainly relieve the boredom.

She looked Malfoy over appraisingly, nodded briskly, and took his proffered arm, "As long as you're buying."

His laughter echoed through the emptying room, "Of course."

He led her toward the exit, and if Hermione hadn't been sure otherwise, she would have sworn he bent to sniff her hair.

But he couldn't have.

Could he?

* * *

Draco controlled the urge to beat his head against the table repeatedly. Perhaps Maxus had been wrong in his assessment that a conversation with Granger was worth a solid meal. Perhaps he could just starve instead. It seemed a more appealing option at present.

She was working herself into a tizzy across from him, and he couldn't help watching in a sort of masochistic fascination. She was managing to hold up both sides of the conversation without any input from him, and he was starting to appreciate the muffling spells placed on the tables of the restaurant. It was enough that he had to hear this verbal abuse, but if someone else had heard it, Draco may have just cracked.

He had lost her train of thought somewhere back when she was berating him about not telling her this sooner, and now she was saying something about his behavior at school and how it could never be erased or changed or something. Draco didn't really care.

Glancing as casually as he could at the pocket watch he had fished out early in her lecture, he counted the second hands as they struggled to make it to the top of their ascent. When they finally reached twelve, he snapped the watch cover closed emphatically and carefully placed the timepiece back in his pocket. Her twenty minutes were up.

"Are you quite finished?" Draco couldn't bring himself to care if his voice came out kindly.

Granger was quite flushed at this point, and at his interruption she glared pointedly, "I most certainly am not! Have you even been listening? That is the entire point I am trying to make here…"

"Yes, yes, I'm a back-stabbing, two-faced inbreed that will never match up to your warped standards of what a true man should be. I think we've covered it in the past half hour," he folded his arms in front of him and glared right back.

That seemed to have knocked the wind out her sails a bit, "I didn't mean…"

"Oh yes you did, Granger, no backing out of it now. It is fully established that you think I'm scum, and as long as we're keeping score here, it's worth noting that I think you're a fairly frigid bitch, myself. Unfortunately, this is not a situation controlled by emotion," he helped himself to their second bottle of wine and took the liberty of refilling her glass as well.

"Wait, what?" she was clearly having difficulty processing this new development, "But you said…"

He pushed her glass toward her rather forcefully, "I know what I said."

"So you still hate me?" she took the glass but did not drink.

"As much as ever. Drink your wine," he held his own up to demonstrate.

"But you're also attracted to me?" she set her glass next to her and folded her hands sternly.

"Physically, yes. Rather absurdly so," he sighed and mirrored her movements, praying to every god he'd heard of that this could end quickly.

"And it's beyond your control?"

"I wouldn't be here if there was any way around it," he gave up mimicking and went back to the wine.

She nodded and stared at her own glass, "Because you hate me."

"We've established this, Granger. Is there something wrong with your wine?"

She blinked up at him, "Pardon?"

"Your wine. Is there something wrong with it? Would you prefer white instead? Or some champagne? I didn't think this was an occasion worth celebrating, but if you'd prefer…"

"Oh, no," she looked up, and the good old-fashioned Gryffindor worry came back into her face, "It's fine, Malfoy, really. I'm fine. It's just shock is all, just shock."

He snorted and stared back at his drink, "I can understand that, at least."

She took a careful sip of her own, placing the glass deliberately down, "Well, it's not every day that someone tells me that he's a veela, and I'm his mate."

"Perhaps that was the wrong choice of words," he looked up at her carefully.

She shook her head, clearly more composed, "Let's call it as it is here, Malfoy. Through no fault of my own, and apparently no fault of yours, we have been linked. Or am I wrong?"

"Not particularly. Although, this really only impacts me," he shrugged and looked down again.

She threw up her hands in agitation, "Honestly! Of course it impacts me, you ridiculous man! I have just been handed the control of another human's life! Of course it affects me!"

"You don't necessarily have control over it," he scowled, wishing he had kept a bit more information to himself.

Granger sighed at him, "Malfoy, you look like a strong wind could knock you over. You clearly haven't slept in days and if your appetite tonight is anything to go on, I would say you haven't been eating well either. You can tell me that it has only slightly affected your lifestyle until you are blue in the face, but that doesn't change the fact that this month has clearly altered you."

"I wouldn't say altered…"

She rolled her eyes, "Give it a rest, Malfoy. We both know I'm right."

"Even under the pretext that you are right, what is to say that I can't manage on my own? It's been a month, hasn't it?" Draco scowled at her and downed the rest of his glass in one gulp, wishing once again that it could be anyone but Granger. _Anyone_.

She looked at him tiredly, "And where are you now? Sitting across the table from the girl you can't stand because you couldn't physically stay away."

"Yes," he shrugged, "I fail to see your point."

"My point is that I have no choice but involve myself in this mess of yours. I am partially the cause of your current misery, and it would be inhumane of me to refuse to help. Even if you are…"

"A ferret-faced ex-con with no morals and too much vanity, we've been through this," he rested his head wearily in a hand.

She nodded briskly, squared her shoulders, and took a rather large gulp of wine, "Well?"

He blinked at her, "Well, what?"

"What are we going to do about it?" she looked at him expectantly.

He shrugged.

The flush in her cheeks was returning, "You mean you don't have any idea of what to do?!"

He looked pointedly at the bottle of wine, and then divided its remaining liquid between their two glasses.

"So that's your brilliant solution, Malfoy? Just _drink_ the problem away?" she buried her face in her hands.

He leaned back, smirking, "It's worked for me before."

Hermione growled into her hands, not bothering to look up.

He gave her a minute, but then he sighed, "Look, Granger. I invited you to dinner in the hopes that you would have an idea of what to do here. I thought you had a right to know. Past that, I don't know what I'm going to do."

She glanced up, looking so lost that hated himself instantly, "Well, we had better come up with a plan. You clearly can't keep living like this."

"I did have one idea," he met her eyes cautiously, and his heart begged her to say yes, "When we met the last time, and now today…well, it's incredibly relieving. The symptoms, if you will, diminish for weeks before they starting up again. When I'm in you vicinity, it's much easier, of course, but there's a period afterwards, too."

She nodded slowly, "So you're suggesting…"

"Let me see you again. Not frequently, or anything. Just once every three weeks or so, or whenever there are…sudden issues," he scratched his neck, feeling incredibly foolish and an uncomfortable brand of selfish.

"So, you could live your life, and I could live mine?" he could practically hear the gears turning in her head.

"At least until we come up with a more long-lasting solution," he felt himself smiling at her expression and inwardly cursed himself, "I have some contacts that say they have possible solutions, but the research will take time."

Her smile lit up her features, and he wished momentarily that she was not so happy at the prospect of getting rid of him, "We do this now, and then when we find a solution, we can go back to our lives just as they were."

He nodded firmly, fighting the urge to grin, "It's settled then. Dessert, Miss Granger?"

"Why thank you Mr. Malfoy, as long as you're still buying!" she smirked in a way that reminded him of his own reflection, and he thought his heart might melt.

* * *

Hermione sat on the other side of her door, head spinning.

She decided that she might like boredom after all. Boredom was far less risky.

The wine was doing funny things to her head, and she momentarily placated herself with the thought that perhaps that was why her heart was beating so rapidly.

It had nothing to do with Draco Malfoy.

It had nothing to do with him walking her home.

It had nothing to do with him saying goodnight.

She had just had too much to drink, that was all. The fuzzy feeling that was swelling up from her toes was induced by the liquor in her veins, not the way he had kissed her hand goodnight. He had even asked her first, the polite bastard. He had said that the contact helped.

And then he had kissed the back of her hand before turning it over and kissing her palm, his nose pressed to her pulse point, breathing deeply.

She shook her head in an attempt to clear it, but it that only seemed to make the world spin more.

For nearly an hour, she sat there, feeling the smooth wood of her entryway with tired hands, trying to tell herself that she was making her decision to see him again based solely on sympathy for him.

It was almost midnight when she realized it.

She had just gone to dinner with Draco Malfoy. For the first time since her divorce, she had gone to dinner with a man. A man named Draco Malfoy.

Hermione Granger burst into tears on the floor by her front door.

Because she knew she would do it again.


End file.
